


our shaking lips, mirrored

by rhindon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fingon’s weird sense of humor, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Nirnaeth Arnoediad, bad-mouthing relatives behind their backs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 02:36:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18863998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhindon/pseuds/rhindon
Summary: Yes, he could have said. Yes, because Argon is dead, Aegnor and Angrod are dead, Finrod is, and Aredhel, and I wouldn’t know if Turgon were, and Hador is gone and his son as well, and Húrin is soyoungand Father is dead deaddead, and I am deathly afraid.Instead he asked;“What if we ruin it all?”





	our shaking lips, mirrored

It struck him, then, as Húrin closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them truly alone for the first time in four days.

He had never watched his tongue around Maedhros. He did not intend to start now.

“Have you ever thought,” he said, conversationally, and paused. It might as well have been another day in Tirion, for all that the words were familiar; have you ever thought about flying? about riding a star? about burning your grammar? what about sneaking into the kitchen? have you ever? have you? have you?

“Well, Maglor does complain that it’s all I ever do,” Maedhros slid in without missing a beat. “Thinking, that is. He says he could probably hear me thinking from Thargelion.”

“Please don’t let him try,” said Fingon, “isn’t it still infested? Or wait, should I say ‘please do’? I don’t reckon we have enough relatives to spare, but surely your brothers are annoying enough not to count.”

His cousin regarded him with a fond expression. Fingon shrugged. Light-hearted words had always come easiest to him, and with two siblings gone on his side, the last’s whereabouts hypothetically unknown —  _thank_ you, Turukáno, the apples were lovely, do pass on my greetings to your daughter and our sister-son — he maintained that he had every right to joke about it.

“You know, maybe I should send Curufin there. A nice long mission with some dwarves thrown in. See, there’s not much I wouldn’t do to be safely rid of him,” Maedhros said, his tone far too grave to mean it much.

“Valar save us. What did he do now?”

“Other than nearly falling into another catfight with Maglor? Nothing exactly new, but if Himring’s still standing by the time I get back to it, it’d be a pleasant surprise.”

Fingon snorted. On the map, drifting, his eyes fell on Narog. There, there was another kinsman whose city they had, hypothetically, known nothing about. Orodreth had not sent his refusal, yet, and he and Maedhros had not discussed it, but all their plans already assumed Nargothrond would not march. (Írimë at least had said it might be for the best, a rare glint of her mother’s blood flickering in her eyes.)

“With all that’s happened, one would think he’d lose some of that attitude,” he said, and if his words were bitter, he could hardly be helped, now, could he?

“He’s been giving far less trouble than his norm, trust me,” Maedhros sighed. He stood. “If power games with Maglor is the worst he gets up to, I ought to be glad. Heaven knows Maglor delights in putting him back in his place.”

“I remember when he used to be the _nice_ one in your family,” Fingon grumbled, but his heart wasn’t in it; it was better to know Maglor had no plans to follow in Orodreth’s footsteps.

Maedhros gave him a crooked smile, and stepped toward the window.

It was one of the few with actual glass, but they’d thrown it open as soon as they’d come in, the stale air having done nothing for their mood. Now the occasional breeze stirred the parchments of the table, and slipped through their hair; sunlight danced in rings on his cousin’s head. A rare day, he knew, one he would have been loathe to waste only a handful of years ago.

In a disused archive in Barad Eithel, Fingon looked down on his maps, at those dusty and cracked, at those with their ink barely dried, and let out a long groan.

“But Maglor isn’t what you wanted to ask about, is it?” Maedhros said, suddenly. “Have I ever thought - what, Káno?”

After a bit of consideration, he came to his feet, too, for lack of better options. The chair screeched under him. He stepped up close to Maedhros, laid a hand on the windowsill, and resolutely refused to look out. (He knew the fortress better than the back of his hand, anyways. He could just as well see the soldiers milling around, sixty feet below; the maids rushing by; mothers and fathers who had refused to leave; the men and women and children, Eldar and Atani.) His fingers drummed on stone.

Maedhros faced him with a quizzical tilt to his brows. Fingon met his eyes, and sighed.

“Have you ever thought about, say, after?”

“After the battle?” Maedhros asked back. Fingon nodded.

“If we win, there’d be plenty of time to think about it. If we lose, there wouldn’t be much to think about anything at all, I suppose.”

“You sound distinctively Vanyarin, and that’s not even an answer to my question, but fine. Still, what if we do lose?” he took another step, and his cousin grinned.

“For the past four hundred years, that’s all we’ve done. We lost. Come now, will there be that much of a difference?”

Yes, he could have said. Yes, because now we’re staking everything we have, yes, because we’re taking risks we wouldn’t have dreamed of in our youth, yes, and you know it better than any living man. Yes, yes, and you being you, you would’ve been thinking of it far longer than even you realize. Yes, because the tide’s changing and it won’t ever turn back.

Yes, he could have said. Yes, because Argon is dead, Aegnor and Angrod are dead, Finrod is, and Aredhel, and I wouldn’t know if Turgon were, and Hador is gone and his son as well, and Húrin is so _young_ and Father is dead dead _dead_ , and I am deathly afraid.

Instead he asked;

“What if we ruin it all?”

For one long, wild second, he read the lines on his cousin’s face, and expected him to laugh. He hoped he would, really, it’d been rather a while since he’d last heard him—

And then Maedhros stooped, and pressed their mouths together.

 

 _It shouldn’t feel like this,_ he thought. It shouldn’t have felt like just another kiss, but it did, and he felt rather, well, foolish, that he’d expected otherwise.

Flesh and blood and bone underneath. In hindsight, it should have felt the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Fools, Lauren Aquilina, because no matter what, the song will ALWAYS remind me of Fingon and Maedhros, ten seconds before the Nirnaeth. Really!


End file.
